TRANSPORTATION: New Hopes & Ancient Rancors

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Thousands of men & women poured into New York's Grand Central Station last week to see the newest mechanical marvel of the world's most mechanical nation—the "wholly new" Twentieth Century Limited. The New York Central's publicity handouts had described the new Century as "the most modern and luxurious train in all railroading history." This turned out to be something of an overstatement.

The Century's barbershop and secretary, its train-to-city phone, shower bath, and doors that open at a touch were already standard equipment on several other "name" trains. Its new dining car seated fewer passengers than the old two-car arrangement, and placed diners with their backs to the scenery. The new roomettes still forced occupants to protrude into the corridor when pulling down the bed.

What was unquestionably new and, in 20th Century terms, indisputably luxurious was the glittering brilliance of stainless steel and mirrors, rich fabrics and fluorescent lighting.

A Male Teat. Few of Grand Central's sightseers were inclined to carp. To them, the Century's elegances were a glimpse of unknown comfort, a far cry from the jolting realities of everyday railroad travel. The truth was that the U.S. citizen, in his capacity as a passenger, had generally been regarded by the railroads as a damn nuisance. Until very recent times, the railroads have been mainly interested in freight. Empire Builder Jim Hill, gloomily contemplating one of his Great Northern Railway's Limiteds, once remarked: "A passenger train is like the male teat—neither useful nor ornamental."

On the common-or-garden Pullman, still standard equipment for overnight travel, the seasoned traveler knows that he will go to bed when the porter chooses to make up his berth—no sooner and not much later. He masters the special technique required for undressing in a Pullman berth: a brand of gymnastics which would do credit to a graduate student of yoga. He knows that the car's oddities of ventilation make it the only place outside the malarial zones where a man can get a chill and a sweat at the same time. The experienced take these rituals (and a couple of sleeping pills) as a matter of course; the inexperienced lie sleepless while the car is shuttle-cocked for long hours in midnight switchyards.

Commuter trains, which habitually lose money, are habitually dirty, uncomfortable, crowded, apt to be late—and generally a closer kin to Emett's famed Punch cartoons than to the glossy streamliners. The short-run trains are little better. For the smell of stale tobacco smoke, the sight of stained seat cushions, and close contact with orange peel, cigar butts, and sandwich wrappers, the U.S. offers nothing quite like a Pennsylvania Railroad day coach on the New York to Washington run.

To go from New Orleans to Tampa by coach at night requires two changes, and a four-hour wait at Jacksonville. The only sleeper from Atlanta to Nashville bumps to a stop 43 times in ten hours. It has only recently become possible for a passenger to cross the country without changing trains—at the price of two hours of shunting in Chicago yards while the car is scrubbed and the air conditioning wavers erratically.